A SEAL at Heart (2 page)

“Don’t forget to eat your vegetables.” She gave him a big smile before she went back to attending her other customers. Did she know how her aura of bubbling beauty affected men? Probably not.

Releasing the grip on his beer bottle, he placed it on the table and then attacked the salad. It was significantly better than hospital food and MREs. Hooking his fork into the meat, he pulled it out from between the buns. As a SEAL, he was always in training, and he would rather carbo-load with a brew and burn it off running. He wrapped the burger in lettuce and took a bite. The meat was savory and juicy, filling him with welcome satisfaction.

News droned in the background until someone had the good sense to flip on a ball game. There was something peaceful about that… as if it were Saturday and he was a kid again.

Methodically, he ate until the burger and salad were gone. The french fries sat untouched next to the bun halves and a very sad-looking pickle. He lifted his brew, and his lips drew tight, pulling the cold liquid down his throat.

He’d been in the Teams for eight years, and being a SEAL was the basic foundation of his soul. Another enlisted man might state that the military was important, but to Jack it was everything. If he couldn’t deploy anymore… well, the concept was too harsh to even contemplate.

His eyes searched, looking for a distraction from his musings. For several seconds his gaze stopped on a large, agile man until his inner gauge dismissed him as a nonthreat. Ever vigilant, there was always a part of him searching for trouble and ready to respond.

At the next table, a dog happily lapped water from his complimentary “pup” bowl. A man in his fifties, probably the owner or an overindulgent dog walker, dropped parts of a hamburger into the water and the dog went crazy—busily fishing pieces out and then chomping, chewing, and swallowing the tasty morsels down as if no one had ever fed him.

Life
must
be
so
much
easier
as
a
dog. Someone is there to make the meals, walk side-by-side, play, and run.
Was that what he wanted? Did he want someone feminine, curvy, and sweet to be there, too?

He’d be better off with a dog. With his schedule he didn’t know if either was a realistic wish. His ideal state was being deployed, which didn’t leave much time for a home life.

Gripping the cold bottle of beer like a lifeline, he lifted it to his mouth and drank deeply.
God, that tastes good! And it’s predictable. Every swallow is the same.

Off to the side, he could hear the faint buzz of cars and trucks as they sped down Orange Avenue, confirming that everything was in sync here, normal. That was reassuring to a degree, witnessing the commonplace; this is what “everyday” was supposed to resemble. Calm. Steady. Regular.

Why
isn’t that me?
His mind and body couldn’t slow down. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to let this familiar place and a beer soothe him. At least he hoped it would. McP’s was a special home for his kind. Owned by one of his brethren, there was Navy SEAL memorabilia on the walls, a trident on the T-shirts, and oftentimes the bar would fill with sightseers and froghogs—women who hopped from frog to frog. In the Underwater Demolition Team, or UDT—the precursor to the SEAL Team—these Navy sailors were called frogmen. Later on, the name was changed to better show their areas of operation: SEAL—SEa Air Land—but the age-old name for the women who pursued them never got updated.

Half his Teammates were in committed relationships, and the rest dicked around almost constantly. Lately, his celibacy walk had turned into a preference. It had begun as a way to concentrate on work, and now…

Maybe he just didn’t have what it took—a crap tolerance—to be in a relationship.

The back of his head exploded with a sudden and sharp pain. His hand lifted automatically, rubbing over the healing wound and stubbly blond hair.

“Red Jack!” His eyes whipped open, and for a second, he could have sworn that he’d heard Don. That was impossible. His swim buddy was dead, and there was nothing that could bring him back.

Pain squeezed his neck. His vision blurred and for a moment an image of his friend flashed before his eyes.

The rush of emotions for his swim buddy was the kind of tidal wave that could take out a city, and equally as devastating as it crashed over him again and again. He’d have done anything to have Petty Officer Second Class Donald Dennis Kanoa Donnelly alive and well. Sorrow punched his heart, but he’d never show it, especially not in public.

His phone vibrated. Jack had the cell in his hand before he remembered he was supposed to be on vacation—no one would be calling him for sudden deployment.

Punching a button, he accessed the email. Appointments had been scheduled for him: group therapy and individual sessions.
Can’t this Frankenstein wannabe leave me alone? I don’t need a doctor.

He just needed to keep it together long enough to go operational again. Being on medical leave was like swallowing two-inch nails whole: it hurt the entire way down and out. He had way too much time on his hands to think. He needed action.

“Petty Officer First Class John Matthew Roaker.”

His name was a command that had Jack sitting up straight in his chair. Any other service would have a guy standing at attention before the rank and name had been completely spoken. Spec Ops was different, more laid-back.

“Taking a trip down memory lane?” commented a gruff man with salt-and-pepper hair and a long bushy mustache. His sideburns were like hairy caterpillars perched on the side of his face. The man took a step closer to Jack and grinned. A fat cigar was clamped between his lips and his voice had lost the hard edge and was warming progressively. “Shit, you look like a newbie jarhead, Jack! We’re going to have to mess you up a bit! So you look like a fucking SEAL.”

“Good to see you, Commander,” replied Jack, already proffering his hand to greet his former BUD/S Instructor, now mentor. With a grin on his lips that spoke volumes of the man’s capacity for jocularity, Commander Gich didn’t appear to be the kind of guy who could teach you fifty different ways to kill with a knife.

His gaze connected with the Commander’s. Jack took comfort in the stare. Emotion hung like a bad painting just behind his own eyeballs, but he pushed past the weight of it. “Sir, it’s great to see you.”

Jack stood and the men embraced, slapping hands on each other’s backs in heavy smacks and then briskly separating. There was a tremendous sense of the familial. Jack needed that right now.

“You too!” said the Commander. “How’s the brain? Is it still swelling? I can think of better things to make swell.”

“Christ! They’re not sure. You know docs. Though, I’m pretty sure the fracture’s better.” Jack reseated himself, eager to change the subject. “I was thinking about my first drink here, and then there was the Hell Week celebration, when you and I drank until the kitchen opened for the early birds’ lunch the next morning.” He could practically taste the stale alcohol. Bile threatened to rise, but he shoved it down. Yep, that memory was definitely intact! Why couldn’t he have lost that day, instead of the events from the last Op? He needed those memories.

“No shit! You were so hungover from those shots that you puked your guts out in the back of my car.” Gich signaled the waitress for a beer. “Still doesn’t smell right. But it’s easy to find Blue Betty in the dark.” His grin could have lit up the darkest depths. “So, how’s it going, Jack? What’s with the shrink-wrap therapy? I may be retired, but I’m still in the loop.”

Shaking his head, Jack said, “I don’t know. It’s been…” He searched his mind for the word, but he couldn’t even find that. Who really wanted to know the inner workings of a SEAL? They might not like what they find in there, and then what? SEALs had more layers than an artichoke.

“Hard, complicated, and disillusioning to come back from a mission that’s seriously goat-fucked. You’re not the first, Roaker, and unfortunately, you won’t be the last. Just don’t become a poster boy, it’s not your gig.”

“Yeah, me a poster boy! Could you see me in Ronald McDonald hair?” cracked Jack without missing a beat. It felt good to have someone giving him shit. Everyone had been so “nice” to him lately that it creeped him out. “Sure I can pull off the look, but all those hands to shake, personal appearances, and then there goes your private life.”

“Wiseass!” A shapely blond waitress who could easily be a modern-day Marilyn Monroe placed an icy beer in front of Gich. “Thanks, Betsy. I knew you’d remember how I liked it.”

“Anything for you, Gich.” She winked at him and headed back inside. The bar was pretty empty for a Tuesday afternoon, but it’d pick up tonight and be packed with military personnel on the hunt for hook-ups and single ladies on the quest for the golden ring. That was old hat for him, and he’d rather work out, clean his guns, anything…

“I can make a few recommendations. There are a couple of medical professionals who use unconventional methods. Alternative healing… it might help.” Gich looked at him over the top of his beer as he drank. “The person I’m thinking of does acupressure. Did wonders for my knees and lower back.”

“Doctors aren’t my preference.” Jack contemplated getting a pain pill out of his pocket, but he knew it’d be a dicey mix with the alcohol. He preferred to drink, so he left it in his pocket and took another sip.

“Roaker, you can talk to me,” said Gich, drawing on his cigar and puffing out a long thin stream of smoke.

Jack sat silently, briefly weighing his thoughts before he shared them. “Six weeks ago when I left here, I was ready for the mission. Even though there were a couple strikes against it. First, Tucker kept getting changing Intel on the location and how it was laid out. Second, the resources seemed underkill for a plan of this magnitude, and whenever I brought it up, they told me to add as much as we needed. So I did, but it never felt like enough. Third, when we got there, nothing was as discussed; the place was a ghost town outside with only a few people inside. Either the information was terrible, or—”

“You were being set up. Seems unlikely, in the Teams,” said Gich, softly leaning forward. “What happened next?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I can see my feet hitting the dirt and watching everyone take position, and then… nothing.”

Gich took the cigar from his mouth. “Did you see Don die?”

“I must have…” Pain ripped through his heart as he pushed hard to make it go away. “But I don’t remember any of it. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m beached like a whale until I can remember, and it’s ripping me apart to be this still. I need help.”

“You need to get out, have some fun. Don’t think. Just react and let go of everything.” Gich surveyed him with a critical eye before turning his gaze back to watch the shapely blond go through her routine of serving drinks and taking orders. “The watched pot never boils, or in our case, the undrunk beer only gets warm and flat.”

Jack gave a half smile. “I’m not really in the mood for socializing.”

“Come on, you’d have to be dead not to appreciate that,” Gich said, motioning toward the waitress.

He had to admit the bending and reaching of the busty waitress was rather compelling, but he had more important stuff on his mind and couldn’t even consider flirting right now. Shifting in his chair, he found a more comfortable position and said, “What I want to know is how do I… get my warrior mentality back?”

Those words captured Gich’s attention as his eyes locked on Jack’s. The lesson of finding his equilibrium and balance had been the hardest trick for Jack to learn. Gich had worked doubly hard with him on that one. They’d developed all sorts of techniques to help him out, but right now, Jack felt like his skin was crawling off his body and he had to nail himself to a chair to keep still. Did other SEALs feel like an alien in a human body?

With a deliberate and slow movement, Gich brought his hand up and rested it gently on Jack’s arm. But no matter how slowly he’d moved, Jack still flinched and had an urge to pull away. Forcing himself to be still took some concentration.

“Give it time. PTSD happens. Ride it out.” Gich leaned forward and whispered, “And while you’re waiting, go get your whiskers wet and your dick licked. You’re a fucking hero; you should take advantage of it.” He pulled back his hand, grabbed the neck of his beer, and chugged it down. When it was empty, he waved it in the air. “Tonight, Dick’s Last Resort. There are all sorts of SEAL fans there. I’m sure the Naval Special Warfare fund-raiser crowd would benefit from laying eyeballs on you, too. Why not go get your pick of the, uh, ladies? Tour some sweet spots and give your brain some time off.”

The idea of being surrounded by that many people made Jack’s stomach clench, but he knew Gich was right. He had to get back out there. Going from the Op to the hospital, and now home, had not afforded him the opportunity to decompress, let alone figure out how to socialize with anyone of the fairer sex.

Maybe getting hot and heavy would help. He could love ’em and leave ’em as easily as the rest of them, though it seriously had been a while. Love just wasn’t a priority the majority of the time, though sex was almost always welcome.

When Don had been alive—God, those words stuck in his throat—it had been easier to go out for a night on the town. His buddy, though married, was a perfect wingman. He would wrangle the ladies in Jack’s direction and it was a sure thing that his pocket would have a few phone numbers. Sometimes, he’d even take someone for a spin on the town.

Shit!
When the fuck would he feel like himself again?

“Promise me you’ll go tonight.” Gich was studying him again. A man’s word was a bond that was never broken in the SEAL community. Might as well have said, “Put your balls on the table, and if you don’t do as I say, I’ll slice ’em off and pocket ’em.”

Gich would badger him until he agreed, and the Commander ten times out of ten knew best. He’d give it a try. What could it hurt? It couldn’t be any worse than spending weeks in a hospital bed.